


Lost and Found

by Emmithar



Series: Whumptober 2020 [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Arthur Whump, Blessed Are The Peacemakers, Hurt Arthur Morgan, Hurt/Comfort, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:54:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26786281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emmithar/pseuds/Emmithar
Summary: Arthur manages to escape Colm's clutches, but returns to find Clemens Point abandoned.Whumptober prompt #8 Where did Everybody Go?
Series: Whumptober 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1953217
Comments: 14
Kudos: 90
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Lost and Found

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all!
> 
> It's my first Whumptober prompt ever...so...if you don't like it...I'm sorry?

Three days.

  
That was the best he could tell on how long he had been there. Left hanging, upside down, the wound in his shoulder festering, the flesh slowly rotting away. Blood dripping, running down his arm, falling off his fingers, pooling on the floor beneath him.

Drip...drip...drip...

How he still had any left in him was a mystery. Perhaps that was the reason he spent more time unconscious than he did awake; those moments of lucidity weak and fleeting. Still, he was pulled harshly from the depths of oblivion each and every time Colm paid him a visit.

The man was eager and gloating at first. Perplexed and miffed the next. Pure rage and anger the last. Dutch _should have_ come by now. The master no doubt would want his _dog_ back. Where was he, why hadn’t he come for _him_? Each word marked with a blow to emphasis his disappointment.

They were questions Arthur couldn’t answer. Trapped beneath the earth in this dank cellar he knew just as much, if not less, than his captors. By now, Dutch should know that something was wrong. Dutch should have set out in force with all the guns possible to come race to his rescue. His salvation.

They didn’t leave men behind.

Or at least, that was what Dutch had told him. After all, had they not gone clear into the depths of Blackwater, into the maws of a gaping beast to get Sean back? Had he himself, not ventured far north to Strawberry to set Micah free after the man’s stupidity got him trapped behind bars, a proverbial noose about his neck?

They never left men behind. So now, where were they, when he needed them most?

_They knew._

The words like a quiet whisper caressing his mind. Something small, comforting yet disheartening all the same.

They knew it was a trap.

Dutch was no fool. The man most likely knew the moment he had been taken. That it was too late; that there was no hope. He wasn’t coming. Dutch, he was sure, thought him dead already.

  
Arthur wondered if the speech had been nice.

There was always a speech, whenever they lost someone. Heartfelt words, lauding the fallen, spurring emotions towards new hope.  _These things happen._

How many times had Arthur said that? Never thought he’d say it about himself. Never thought he’d be the one who needed saving. He let out a breath.

Everything hurt. Burning and pulsating with a steady throb.

Colm had graced him with his presence again. The man snarling, furious at the lack of response. Beating him senseless, howling crude words. _Someone_ had promised him this would work. Dutch’s right hand man, here within his clutches, and it seemed as though Dutch didn’t care.

Dutch didn’t care.

Arthur wondered if the man even gave him a second thought. Or if he had simply moved on towards the next, great plan.

He tried to not let it get to him. Wasn’t easy. If he wasn’t so damn dehydrated he’d probably be crying right now. Perhaps that was the one bit of fortune going for him. Unable to give his captor the satisfaction of his weakness. Of his resolve crumbling. Because truth be told, it was little more than a pile of rubble now.

Colm screamed at him one last time, words dripping with vehemence, spit flying in his face. Dark threats and cruel promises that were to come shortly. Something he welcomed, almost, if it meant ending this misery. After all, no one was coming for him. He waited for the darkness to take him again, barely focused on Colm’s retreating form.

It didn’t come; not this time. He was left to endure the bitterness of harsh reality. Drowning in his incoherent thoughts. A low, guttural grown as something inside him spasmed. He blinked, bleary eyes taking in his surroundings. Watching the shadows dance along the walls, cast by his swinging form. A glint of something catching his eye, a curious glance towards the source. Watching it, dumbfound, as it glittered like a prize.

He wondered, dully, if he could perhaps reach it.

Arthur shifted, ignoring the burning pain. Stretched out with a shaky hand. Numb fingers clasped around it. He didn’t know why it was there, or where it had come from. But he wasn’t going to think too hard about it.

The ground hit him in a rush, bruised ribs screaming. Broken perhaps. He wouldn’t be surprised. His entire body was one giant mess of blood and bruises; what were a few broken bones on top of it all?

A wave of dizziness hit him as he sat up, freezing instinctively. Before he retched. Not like he had anything to throw up. Why feed a prisoner if he’s simply meant to die? He sat there, far longer than he should have, perhaps. Shaking, covered in his own bodily fluids, stripped down to his union suit.

Grimshaw was going to have his hide.

The thought amused him. She wouldn’t even tolerate him coming in, covered in mud. What would she think of him now? Guess he would find out. He ran a tongue over chapped lips, forcing himself to move. Sat himself down in the chair, the file still clutched tightly in his fingers.

He’d dug bullets out of himself before. That was nothing new. Perhaps the only difference here was that this was days old, instead of hours. Pain radiated through his entire shoulder, shooting down his arm, arching through his chest, his neck tight and head exploding in a wave of agony at the motion.

It had to come out.

He grit his teeth, dug the file in deeper. Eyes closed, breath held, hands shaking. But he got it, felt it slid out. Fresh blood running down his chest. Spots before his eyes, clouding his vision. He nearly collapsed. Let out a few stunted breaths, fighting the growing need to give in.

He was always a fighter.

Ever since a little boy, when his mother departed this world, leaving him behind with a right old bastard of a father. No matter how many times the man beat him, he hadn’t given up. Hadn’t given up after the law took that bastard in. Hadn’t given up when he had nearly starved to death on the streets. He sure as hell wasn’t about to give up now.

The fire burned his skin. The smell of burning flesh giving him yet another reason to gag, spitting out what little bile came forth. His mouth was sour. The putrid taste resting on his tongue. He stunk. Arthur sat there, eyes half closed, breaths hitching within his body as he tried to still his racing heart.

He wasn’t doing too well.

Voices, above, caught his attention. Seemed like his momentary respite was over. His body moving without thought, pressing against the wall. His legs felt like lead, weak and trembling, knees locked to keep himself upright. He might be a right ol’ mess, but he was still a force to be reckoned with. The body dumped on the floor, trembling hands searching his pockets.

Damn fool only had a few knives. Must be a grunt, a new recruit. Colm didn’t arm these lackadaisical clowns properly until they proved themselves. Too many unhindered guns running amok was never a good thing. Seemed like Colm had possessed a little bit of intelligence.

Good thing he was adequate with a knife. The second man dead before he was even aware of what had taken place. The third man killed just as easily. Here he had to pause, eyes closed, forehead pressed against cool wood, his breaths far to fast for such little effort. He counted to ten, forced himself to move again.

Had to keep going. Had to get out. Had to survive.

Had to get back home.

His guns, his satchel, all them found there, dumped in the corner. The familiar weight a comfort, stringing it over his head. Lights, floating off in the distance, obscured by the fog. There were patrols. Of course there were patrols. Though all of it halfhearted. If Dutch hadn’t come now, why would he come at all? The men, he thought, were agitated, having to watch for a threat that would never come.

He kept moving. Sneaking towards the horses. A smile, perhaps the first genuine one since this whole mess crossed his face as he spied his horse. The mustang was agitated, his mane unkempt, lesions and marks decorating his hide. His smile disappeared, bitter anger filling him instead.

“I’m sorry, boy,” he whispered. The roughness of his voice surprised him. Wasn’t like he had done much talking as of late. Still, Adonis seemed pleased to hear him, ears twitching as his head turned. Arthur would take care of it, would see to him as soon as they were free of this nightmare. First, they had to get out of here.

He hauled himself up.

It wasn’t an easy feat. His arm screamed. His side felt as though it was split open. His stomach roiled deep within his gut. Protesting. He kept his eyes pinched shut even as he kicked his heels, nudging Adonis on. The gait of the horse certainly did not help things.

He peeled his eyes open. Guiding Adonis away from the hovering lights. Out along the banks, hooves splashing in the water. A roar of the train above. The pounding of his heart, the gasping of his breaths. He felt himself slump, his weight resting against Adonis’ neck. He couldn’t keep his eyes open anymore. The sway lulling, inviting him to give in. His words, weak and strained.

“Get me home, boy.”

* * *

Home was Clemens Point.

Or, at least, it used to be.

Emptiness greeted him, the landscape barren as he rode in. Only faint traces of residency remained, alluding to the fact that _someone_ had been here.

Once.

Adonis had done his part well. Had taken him this far, despite his own hurts. Arthur had drifted in and out of consciousness the whole while, a few moments here, a few moments there. Each time only vaguely aware of his surroundings. And now that he was here, a whole new feeling of dread washed over him.

Where had everyone gone?

He fell.

At least the grass was softer beneath him than the floor of the cellar had been. He lay there, balancing between dream and reality for a time. The morning dew dampening the back of his union suit. His entire body thrummed, pounding like a heartbeat. Adonis’ lips brushed against his hair, his companion worried or perhaps curious as to why he was just lying there.

Arthur let out a sigh. No one was here; no one was going to help him up. Nothing to it...best he got going then. Somehow, he convinced himself to move. At least so that he was sitting, a wave of dizziness washing over him. His chest heaving as he drew in one ragged breath after another. More than anything he wanted to sleep. To close his eyes and forget all of this had happened. Wake from it as though it were a bad dream.

Like that was ever going to happen.

Arthur swallowed. Adonis nudging him in the back now, solid flesh against his heated skin. He reached up with a shaky hand, giving the beast a reassuring pat. “Good boy...you did...real good.”

Talking was still a chore. His throat hurt.

Water...he should get some water.

Perhaps it would help cool his heated skin. Tame his raging fever. Clear his mind...maybe. He made it to his feet, weight supported by Adonis, clumsy hands searching the bags. The flask, half full. Warm, several days old, but better than nothing. Water spilling down his chin, spattering down of the front of him as he drank greedily. Wheezing as it emptied.

He didn’t feel any better.

Worse, if that was possible. He let himself fall back to the ground, ignoring the huff that came from Adonis. As though the mustang was questioning him as to why he couldn’t even stand. The tremor that raced him had gotten worse, as had the pain, and he closed his eyes, doing his best to battle it. A few breaths, carefully held and released, and it eased. Slowly, just barely, but he had a handle on it now.

He peeled open his eyes. Pushed himself back up.

Camp, unsurprisingly, had not miraculously reappeared in those few moments.

Shit...now what?

The question reverberated in his mind. Unanswered. They were gone...all of them, vanished into thin air. Like this place had been nothing more than a dream. The wagons, the horses, the supplies...all of it, gone. That they had moved out was clear enough, but where? Hazy eyes glanced down, tracing the path that led into the midst of camp. The grooves were easy to see, the wagons pulled out one by one.

He could track them.

The realization numb inside him. He _could_ follow them. He knew what to look for. The realization giving him brief hope. Before dwindling away into despair. The tracks would lead to the road. The road where everyone from every lot of life traveled. Wagons and stages alike. There would be no telling which was which. He would have to pick one, and the chances of him getting the right one was laughable. He’d go in circles, wandering aimlessly, end up more lost than he already was.

Arthur laughed; a sound that was soft and pitiable. He couldn’t even stand. How the hell was he supposed to track? He had escaped Colm’s grasp, had-against all odds-made it this far. Camp had been his salvation, his promise. His one hope of making it out of this alive.

And they had left him.

They had left him with Colm, and now they had abandoned him here.

A lone wolf did not survive long on its own.

He crawled over to a nearby tree, easing himself against the rough bark. His heart, pounding still, angry. There was nothing left he had to give. He was tired...so very tired. The sun was warm on his face, chasing away the morning fog.

  
At least, he reckoned, dying out here was better than perishing in that rank cellar. That, he decided, was at least a small comfort.

* * *

He was moving.

Not that he particularly wanted to. But it seemed as though he didn't have much of a choice. Fingers gripped his arm firmly, a steady pull, beckoning him to his feet. He let out a groan, a shallow protest, head lolling. It came to rest on something solid, his forehead pressed against flesh that was far less heated than his own. Something grunted; the voice firm, close to his ear.

“Come on, Mr. Morgan. Up with me. Help me out here.”

Asking; demanding. He knew that voice. He must be dreaming.

It was a pretty dream, he decided.

Even in his dream he wanted to simply give in and ignore it; but there something about him he could never refuse. Dream or not. So he locked his knees, willed himself to straighten, if only a little. Arthur peeled his eyes open, searching through the haze as understanding came to him.

“D-dutch?”

“I'm here, son. I've got you now; I'm gonna get you home, get you taken care of.”

He hummed in response, eyes flicking about them. “Home...ain't here...Dutch.”

He could swear he heard the man laugh in response. His voice full of mirth.

“That it is not,” Dutch agreed. “We had some nosy neighbors drop by. We all felt that the area was getting a bit too crowded, so we moved on out. But don’t you worry, son. We have a fine place now; real fine. With a roof over our heads and everything. You’ll even have your own room, doesn’t that sound nice?”

Right now, he could sleep in a ditch and be content. Arthur wondered if the man would let him. Didn't think so, groaning as he was manhandled towards a horse. Not his own; not his towering beast. This horse much smaller, cleaner...no, not cleaner. Just white. The Count. He could swear the animal was giving him a sour look. Arthur didn't blame him; he knew how sorry of a state he was in.

At least getting up was easier than it had been with Adonis.

“You're doing a fine job, real fine,” Dutch settled in behind him. “You're going to be just fine, you hear me?”

They were taking off. Where, Arthur wasn't sure. Eyes half-lidded, watching the trees pass by. Trying his hardest to just breath, and not get sick. His thoughts, spiraling. Trying to get them to align.

“Colm got me,” he breathed quietly, filled suddenly with desire to explain his current state. “He got...me....but I-I...got away.”

“You sure did. All on your own too; right ol' bastard you are, Arthur.”

“Had to,” he croaked, unsure how to take that last compliment. At least he thought it was a compliment. It was getting hard to focus. “He was-was gonna...set the law on us. Trap you...a-and hand you in.”

“That's not gonna happen,” came the reassurance.

“No,” Arthur agreed quietly, “Cause you...you weren't coming for me.”

“You _know_ that's not true,” Dutch scolded him. “I _was_ coming; I had a plan, Arthur. You trust me, right?”

He sank back against the man, eyes closing. It was always a plan. He swallowed.

“I ain't mad...Dutch,” he breathed. “I wouldn't have...come either.”

“Arthur, son....I was coming,” he heard the unease in the other's voice. A hand wrap around his forehead, holding him close to his chest. He could hear the man's heart beat, racing under his skin. Seems as though he wasn't as calm as he was pretending to be.

He let out a happy sigh, letting the darkness take him, uttering the last thought on his mind.

“Ain't...worth it. Just glad...you're alright.”

* * *

Somewhere, in the far south, a pair of horses were hurried through the trees, the torn and tattered mansion rising before them. The man, tall and steady, something clutched to his chest, wrapped protectively in an embrace.

From the shadows, a guard on watch called out, gun gripped tight and leveled at the approaching threat. A warning shouted out.

“ _Who goes there?”_

“ _It's Dutch,”_ the newcomer responded, his voice cutting through the air. 

“ _I've got Arthur.”_


End file.
